such lofty individuals as the chief treasurer of Kemet and a provincial governor would have no more than a vague mem ory of him standing on the ship with Commandant Thuty, he was surprised by the friendly manner in which the two men greeted him.
“You remember my wife, Taharet, of course.” Pentu took the tall young woman’s hand and gave her an adoring smile.
She bowed her head briefly, acknowledging Bak, and eyed him with an open curiosity that made him feel like a beetle crossing the sand beneath the sharp eye of a curious boy with an empty jar in his hand.
The governor glanced at his wife, passing along a secret thought, and smiled at the other woman. “This is her younger sister Meret, if you recall.”
“Yes, sir,” Bak said, choosing not to point out that he had never met either woman, merely seen them at a distance.
Meret’s eyes twinkled with good humor, as if she recog nized the situation in which he found himself. “We’d newly arrived in Waset and you were on the ship moored behind ours. You were with a garrison commander from the south, I believe.”
“Commandant Thuty, yes.”
“This is Sitepehu, Lieutenant.” Pentu laid his hand on the priest’s shoulder. “He’s high priest of the lord Inheret and a trusted adviser, a friend as close to me as a brother.”
Well formed in body and face, Sitepehu looked to be about forty years of age. An ugly puckered scar on his left shoulder testified to an early career in the army. Inheret was the divine huntsman, an ancient god identified with the lord Shu, son of the lord Re. Tjeny was his primary seat of worship.
The priest smiled, but before he could respond to the in troduction, Pentu beckoned to his side the older man with military bearing. “This is my longtime aide Netermose, a man of infinite patience, whose willingness to assist me in all my endeavors knows no bounds.”
Bak looked upon the aide with interest. The man’s deeply lined and unattractive features seemed not to fit his slight build and softly curling white hair. Most men in his position were much younger, men who would readily accept menial tasks and adapt themselves to their master’s whims in the hope of bettering themselves later in life.
“Can we not leave this place, my love?” Taharet asked.
“The heat is suffocating and the stench is making me ill.”
Looking shamefaced at her gentle but definite reminder that he was neglecting his duty toward her, the governor glanced around as if he had forgotten the brilliant sunlight, the milling crowd, the bawling cattle, and the competing smells. “Forgive me, dearest. Of course we must leave.”
“I’d hoped we could get closer to Ipet-resyt, where we could watch Maatkare Hatshepsut and Menkheperre Thutmose make offerings to the lord Amon. We’re so far away now…” The words tailed off and she looked hopefully at
Amonked.
“I’ve done my best, my love.” Pentu took her arm and walked her toward the gate.
“I sometimes wish your best would be more effective.”
Amonked and Djehuty exchanged a look of clear disap proval. Meret’s face was expressionless, her feelings about the exchange closed to the world. Sitepehu and Netermose carefully avoided each other’s eyes as if embarrassed by the governor’s show of weakness.
Outside the sacred precinct, the aide led them across the crowded court to a half circle of shade cast by a sycamore whose limbs reached over the wall. The people occupying the space, farm servants if their appearance told true, took one look at the lofty intruders and hastened away, leaving them in relative peace and quiet.
Taharet took a square of linen from beneath a bracelet and patted the moisture from her forehead. Smiling at Amonked, she said, “We have a dwelling near here, sir.” She pointed gracefully toward several blocks of large interconnected multistory houses built to the east of Ipet-resyt. “You can see it from where we stand. The three- story building with trees growing from pots beneath the pavilion on the roof.”
“How nice,” Amonked said.
Bak smothered a smile. Amonked’s voice had been as neutral as Meret’s expression had been. Since a babe, he had walked the corridors of the royal house. When the need arose for tact or dissimulation, he had no master. As in this case, where he disapproved of the woman, but preferred not to alienate her doting husband.
“Ah, here comes Pahure.” Pentu smiled at a man hurrying out of a shadowy lane separating two of the building blocks.
“He’s my steward. Thanks to him, our temporary move to
Waset has gone so smoothly I’ve barely noticed the change of residence.”
Several male and female servants followed the steward.
Upon entering the court through a side entrance, Pahure strode toward Pentu and his party, while the others veered into the throng, intent on merrymaking. The belt of his calf length kilt was snug across the beginnings of a paunch. His broad beaded collar accented heavily muscled shoulders and upper arms. Bak guessed him to be close on thirty-five years.
Pentu introduced him, as generous with his praise as he had been with Netermose and Sitepehu. The moment he paused for breath, Taharet began firing questions at Pahure about several household tasks.
Sitepehu bestowed upon the pair a bland, unrevealing look and turned his back to them. “Before you joined us in the sacred precinct, Lieutenant, Amonked was singing your praises. You must’ve led quite a life on the southern frontier.
I’ve heard those desert tribesmen can be fierce.”
“Bak was a police officer, a most successful one.”
Amonked spoke with considerable pride, as an uncle might speak of his most favored nephew. “Understandably, a fron tier policeman must first and foremost be a soldier.”
“It appears that you’ve seen battle, sir,” Bak said, thinking to deflect attention from himself.
Sitepehu touched the scar on his shoulder, shrugged. “A skirmish, nothing more. It occurred in the land of Retenu.
You know how those petty rulers of city states can be.
Every king affects the sensitivity of a newborn lamb. The slightest insult from another king and he sets out to right what he claims is a wrong, with the further acquisition of wealth and power his real goal. My infantry company found itself between two such kings.” Suddenly he laughed. “So here I stand, marked for life.”
Bak laughed with him. He, too, had scars, but none so dramatic. “We fought few real battles in Wawat. Our ene mies were usually smugglers or a few ragged bandits out to steal from a helpless village.”
Amonked, who knew from personal experience how bitter the fighting could get on the frontier, frowned his disap proval.
Pahure slipped away from Taharet to join them. “I long ago served on a ship that more often than not sailed the
Great Green Sea. We fought pirates mostly.” He gave his companions a wry smile. “The battles I’d rather remember occurred in foreign ports, where we drank and made merry and fought for the pleasure of doing so.”
Netermose’s smile was rueful. “I fear my finest battles have been in Tjeny, convincing the landholders to pay all the taxes due my master and the royal house.” He directed the smile at Pentu. “Unlike your contests, sir, where tact and diplomacy have won the day.”
“Not always, Netermose, as you well know. I’ve…”
Taharet laid her hand on her husband’s arm, interrupting with the indifference of a woman utterly secure in her posi tion. “We’re having guests tomorrow,” she said to Amonked.
“We’d like you and your worthy spouse to honor us with your presence.”
“I regret that my wife cannot come. She’s a chantress of the lord Amon. A noteworthy honor, certainly, but a task re quiring time and dedication throughout the festival. She’ll be fully occupied for the next ten days.”
Taharet looked appropriately impressed and at the same time disappointed. “Will you not come alone?”
“I don’t usually…” Amonked hesitated, glanced at Bak, smiled. “If you’ll allow me to bring my young friend here,
I’d be glad to drop by.”
Taharet beamed at him, at her husband, and at Bak. “You will come, won’t you, Lieutenant?”
